Neil didn’t trust himself to walk into Maggie’s bedroom.

Just as he hadn’t trusted himself to meet Maggie and Sydney in the driveway when he heard the engine of Maggie’s old Buick rumble to a stop. Lilian had come home as soon as she’d heard the news, so he’d let her be the one to hurry out to the car, open Maggie’s passenger-side door, slip an arm around her.

Coward.

No, he wasn’t being a coward. He was stopping himself from descending into a tirade of misplaced frustration and fear. From saying everything he’d thought ever since receiving Sydney’s call almost two hours ago.

He’d assumed when he’d seen her name on his phone’s screen she was calling to give him an update on the man they’d gone to meet at the summer camp. Instead, she’d scared him half to death by telling him Maggie had fainted.

“She’s sure it’s just because she had an empty stomach. But after she came to, we drove to a little deli and now we’re on the way home and—”

He’d hardly heard her next words, instant alarm starting in his lungs and spreading to every limb. Sydney had said something about a goose egg on Maggie’s head, and as the women filed in the house, he’d seen the scratch on her cheek, the grass stains on her coat.

Why hadn’t Sydney called him sooner? She’d taken her to a deli? They should’ve gone to the nearest hospital, had Maggie checked over. What if the impact of the fall had left her with a concussion?

This was why he’d stayed in the kitchen, setting the teapot to boiling and preparing a cup of Maggie’s favorite orange spice tea instead of following the rest of them to Maggie’s bedroom. A blustering interrogation wouldn’t do Maggie any favors. He hadn’t even talked to any of them save when Maggie walked in the front door. He’d mumbled something then about being glad she was home and thankful she was okay.

But what if she wasn’t? He dropped a teabag in Maggie’s usual yellow mug and poured steaming water over it.

“She requests that you buck up and face her before she lays down for a nap.” Lilian.

He placed the teapot on a cold burner and turned. “How is she?” Besides impatient to see him, apparently. Which meant he needed to get his brittle distress under control.

“Honestly, she seems completely fine. Maybe a little tired, but then, she doesn’t usually take morning road trips.”

Nor should she have needed to. They could’ve tried calling the camp again. Found an email address. Saved themselves the trouble of making a trip that only resulted in disappointment.

That was the other thing Sydney had told him on the phone, not that his focus had been at its best. But he’d heard enough to know John Pettinger wasn’t the JP they sought.

“We should be taking her to a doctor, Lil.”

Lilian shook her head. “She doesn’t want that. Her yearly physical is coming up at the end of November. She insists there’s no point—”

“She’s never fainted before!”

“Maybe not, but she’s a completely competent adult who’s done a dang fine job taking care of herself—not to mention all of us—for decades. It’s not our job to argue with her or haul her to a doctor’s office if that’s not what she wants. If she says this was just a random fluke, that it was nothing, then that’s what it is. Nothing.”

Then why the concern pinching at the corners of Lilian’s mouth? Why the fidgeting hands and the glint of unease in her eyes that contradicted her confident words?

He reached for the mug on the counter and started past Lilian.

“She doesn’t like being coddled, Neil.”

He knew that.

“But if it makes you feel better, you’re not the only one who freaked out a little when you heard.”

He knew that, too. “Here I thought I hid it so well.”

Lilian squeezed his arm as he passed. “I’ll text Indi, give her an update,” she called after him.

He nodded to the empty hallway in front of him, moved past the dining room, into the living room, and across to Maggie’s bedroom. Sydney was just stepping out.

“Oh, good.” She held her wind-ruffled hair bunched to one side in her fist. He assumed she’d left his coat in Maggie’s car, but that striped scarf still hung loose around her neck. “Maggie just sent me to reiterate the message she sent Lilian with.”

Right. He was supposed to buck up and face her.

But first . . . he should say something to Sydney. Tell her he was sorry their trip hadn’t given her any of the answers she longed for. Thank her for helping Maggie, getting her home.

But words stalled in his throat, pushed down by an annoyance he wished he didn’t feel. Of course Lilian was right and they couldn’t force Maggie to see a doctor. But maybe if he’d been there when it happened . . .

“Neil—”

“I should bring her this tea before it gets cold.”

With a bare nod, she moved to the side so he could pass.

He found Maggie sitting up in her bed, little stray light from the two windows in her room filtering in—to be expected, what with heavy clouds veiling the sky today. Still, there was a brightness to the room—her yellow walls, the white posts of her canopy bed, and the sheer fabric draping overhead. And, of course, the pile of fluffy throw pillows currently on the floor.

Had any woman in the history of humankind ever required more decorative pillows than Maggie? Wasn’t only here in her bedroom, but out in the living room, the sunroom. Only two weeks ago, he’d finally stored away the cushioned porch furniture with its overabundance of pillows.

“Let me guess,” Maggie said as he crossed to her bed. “You’re frustrated that Sydney didn’t call you the second I hit the ground. You’re convinced she should’ve dialed 9-1-1 and had me carted off in an ambulance, and even now, you’re fighting the urge to contact Dr. Nadir and bribe him to make a house call.”

He set her tea on the bedside stand and pulled her rocking chair from the corner, scooting it closer to the bed before sitting down. “Hadn’t thought of a bribe. Good idea.”

“I’m fine, Neil.”

“You’ve never fainted before.”

“Well, at sixty-five, it’s kind of nice to know there’s still new experiences to be had.”

Was he supposed to laugh at that? “Maggie—”

“Nope. I can appreciate that you’ve got concerns, but I’ve got a few of my own. Namely, just how long were you planning to keep Muir Farm’s financial problems from me?”

All his caged worry faded to the background as he took in the set to her jaw, tried to make sense of her words. “What are you . . . I’m not sure I know—”

“You know exactly what I mean, Neil.” She hadn’t even touched her tea. “Now start talking.”

Lemon bars—Maggie had said something on the way home about lemon bars.

And about how long it’d been since she made them and how good they sounded, and, well, Sydney needed to do something. So she’d make lemon bars.

Neil had been in Maggie’s room for almost forty minutes now, and Lilian, now that she was sufficiently convinced Maggie was okay, had needed to run back to the office and finish out her workday.

Leaving Sydney to pace through the house, chewing on her worry. About whether Maggie was really all right. About whether she’d done the right thing—bringing her home instead of to the hospital.

About that shuttered look in Neil’s eyes when he’d walked past her into Maggie’s room.

Lemon bars.

Right. Not that she’d ever made them before, but she’d found Maggie’s recipe, written in the woman’s now-familiar cursive, the lined card yellowed and faded with age, its edges frayed.

About like Sydney’s spirits at the moment. But if nothing else, she could do this. And hopefully by the time Maggie awoke from her nap, there’d be a treat awaiting her. She propped the card atop the recipe box and moved to the fridge, knowing she’d find butter on a shelf inside the door. She’d seen a lemon or two on the windowsill over the sink, peeking between the leaves of Maggie’s overgrown plants.

As for the rest of the ingredients for the crust—the pantry.

She’d never seen a pantry like the one attached to Maggie’s kitchen. More of a cellar, really. A narrow door led down four rickety wooden steps. She’d been down here multiple times on Friday and Saturday last week as she helped Maggie bake for the Autumn Market. Which is how she knew what direction to tiptoe in the dark, where to find the string dangling from the ceiling that would turn on the light.

The click of the pantry door latching shut sounded at the same time as pallid light cast around the small space, and cool air seeped through the sleeves of her cotton shirt.

Shelves lined all three walls of the pantry, packed with canned goods, baking supplies, and other nonperishables. The crust called for flour, and she might as well grab powdered sugar for the filling and topping while she was down here. Had the recipe included white sugar, too? She reached for it just in case.

Canister of flour tucked under one arm and the rest of the supplies cradled in her other, she retraced her steps. With her hands full, she’d have to grab the light later. She’d be lucky to get the door open at the top of the stairs without dropping anything. As it was, it took balancing everything just right to free her hand to grab hold of the knob.

But wait, why wasn’t it turning?

She twisted. Harder. Another jiggle.

Bother. She bent to lower her armload to the narrow step behind her and tried the knob again, pushing as she turned this time. “What in the—”

The door flung open just as she pushed against it again, sending her weight flailing forward, and then, as she overcorrected her balance, swaying backward, a gasp flying from her lips.

Two arms shot forward to keep her from tumbling down the stairs, but when her foot hooked on the flour canister, she went toppling forward once more. She heard the clink of the flour rolling down the steps just as her head hit a solid chest. Flannel.

Neil. Of course. Because if ever she was going to find herself incapable of opening a door, he’d be there to see it.

She jumped away from him. “Sorry, I—” Her foot landed on the bag of powdered sugar, her stability shifting all over again.

And there were Neil’s hands again, landing on her shoulders this time as he lowered to the step. “Maybe just don’t move for a sec.”

Why did he sound irritated with her? Shouldn’t he be trying not to laugh at her right now? Isn’t that what he usually did? Made a pointless attempt to hide his amusement despite the light in his ridiculously blue eyes?

A light missing now. Didn’t stop the flush she could feel crawling up her neck or the frisson of awareness at his closeness.

She whirled away, smart enough this time to grab hold of the thin wood railing and watch where she stepped. She needed to find where the flour had rolled to, retrieve the rest of her ingredients, and get out of this tiny pantry. Neil had been in here all of five seconds and he was already using up all the air in the room.

“What’re you doing in here?”

“Lemon bars. Maggie said they sounded good.” She hurried down to the floor and crouched to reach her arm under the steps. She felt around for the canister. “What’s wrong with all the doors around here?”

“The doors are fine. Maybe it’s the person trying to use them who’s got the issue.”

“I’ve been opening doors just fine for most of my life so—” Her hand connected with the canister. She slid it free and rose.

Just in time to see Neil reaching the bottom of the steps. No barely concealed laughter. Not even a hint of a grin. There was something hard about the tic of his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed.

Maggie had warned her he wouldn’t be happy she’d refused to see a doctor. That he’d most likely feel guilty for not being there when she fainted, however irrational. But this didn’t look like displeasure or misdirected blame.

It looked like resentment.

Directed at her.

“Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t take her straight to—”

“What in the world possessed you to tell her about the money problems?”

Oh. Oh. She pressed her eyes closed for a moment. She’d hoped Maggie hadn’t remembered . . . had assumed when Maggie hadn’t brought it up on the way home . . .

A futile hope and a faulty assumption. “Neil, I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to say—”

“I told you I didn’t want to burden her. I told you I was taking care of things and there was no point in bothering her with it. You had no reason not to believe me. No right to put that on her.”

Her grip on the canister tightened. “It slipped out. She was upset. I was upset.” She shook her head, trying to remember what exactly she’d even said. Oh goodness. Financial danger zone. Those were the words she’d used.

Clearly Neil must’ve just come from being grilled over it.

“Did you . . . did you tell her . . . ?”

“Well, I’m not going to lie to her when she asks me straight up what the finances are, Syd. I told her the basics.”

“How about your plan to—”

“Wasn’t the right time. Not when she’s already upset with me for keeping her in the dark. Last thing she needs is to hear I’ve charged forward and started building—” He broke off. “Wait, you didn’t mention the treehouse to her, too, did you? Great, maybe she was so upset about the rest of it, she didn’t even get around to bringing that up.”

“No, no, of course not. I wouldn’t.” Though why he should believe that when she’d already opened her big mouth about the rest of it, she didn’t know. “I am really sorry. I wish I could go back and keep myself from saying anything.”

Wished she could go back and erase that whole trip to that campground. It was impulse again, getting the better of her. Chasing another fairy tale. She’d really thought, she’d actually thought . . .

No, now’s not the time to focus on your own disappointment.

Especially knowing how much her careless words had impacted not only Neil, but Maggie, too. Bringing up the farm’s financial state was thoughtless enough, but then there’d been all her out-loud musing about Diana and her private life.

“She was only a teenager, Sydney. She was my daughter. Flippantly talking about who she was or wasn’t intimate with is not exactly comfortable for me.”

She spun away from Neil, faced the back of the pantry, feeling the shame creep through every inch of her.

Oh, please. Not tears. Not now.

“Syd—”

“I think I should go.”

“The lemon bars can wait.”

She shook her head, hot, stubborn tears sliding down her cheeks. She’d barely kept them at bay Saturday night after that horrible conversation with Creighton, and they refused to retreat now. “No, I mean I should go. I can’t keep doing this to all of you. Completely upending things.” She sniffed. “I feel pathetic saying it, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to afford the fee to change the plane ticket Wilder got me, but I’m sure I can find a bus or maybe Amtrak or—”

“Wait, what?” Neil came around to the front of her.

“I keep hurting people. Maggie, you. Even Creighton.” She was full-on crying now, her words stuttered and muffled. “This whole thing is unfair to everyone. I came here only thinking about what I could get out of it. Answers. A family. Roots. It was completely selfish. A-at one point I even looked up pictures of the farm and it looked s-so pretty that I thought, w-wow, if I do belong there, then maybe my own money troubles are over. Remember that old Victorian I told you about? I actually had the thought that maybe I was an heiress and I could finally buy it. I’m not kidding, I really thought that. I’m no different than Greta Turner.”

She didn’t know what she expected him to do. Give a derisive laugh, maybe, at the thought of Muir family money coming her way. Shake his head and walk away.

Certainly not ease his stance and close the distance between them, reach his arms around her and pull her close.

It took her a moment to absorb what was happening, to loosen enough to process the warmth of being wrapped in Neil’s arms as it replaced the cool of the pantry. The canister of flour was still trapped in the crook of one elbow, but her other hand seemed to lift upward of its own accord, fingers curling over his shirt.

“You’re not Greta Turner, Syd.” He spoke the words into her hair. “And I’m honestly sorry we can’t bestow a surprise inheritance upon you so you can buy that Victorian.”

She allowed herself to turn her head so her cheek rested against his shoulder. “I figured if not Maggie, then maybe if I could find my father, he might—” She clipped her words before a garbled sob could make its way free. “I thought it might be him. This morning, at the camp, I really thought . . .”

Surely Neil was having trouble making sense of her words. Surely his hand rubbing her back was just an attempt to calm her down—enough so that he wouldn’t feel bad extricating himself from this blubber-fest he’d never asked to be a part of.

“I should—”

“Don’t go, Sydney.” The words rumbled from his chest, stilling her own, stilling her very breath.

She didn’t move. Not until she felt one hand leave her back and fingertips skim under her chin, tipping her head until her eyes met his.

“Don’t go home.”

Somehow she made her lips move. “Th-then what do you want, Neil? A minute ago you were angry with me. If you don’t want me to leave, then what do you want?”

His gaze skimmed lower, mere inches, from her eyes to . . . oh. She still gripped his shirt with one hand, but her hold loosened as he dipped his head, her palm flattening and one last breath catching in her throat before—

“Neil!”

Neil jerked away, the moment shattered at the piercing of Wilder’s voice, his thumping footsteps in the kitchen. And the canister of flour dropped from her hold all over again, the lid clanking free this time and sending puffs of white clouding around them.